


Promises

by cheyennesunrise



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e09 The Crossing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheyennesunrise/pseuds/cheyennesunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is falling apart, but Harold is there to catch him. Spoilers for "The Crossing". Angst & H/C</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "The Crossing" and spoilers for "The Devil's Share". Second POI fic. I hope you like it!

It’s all over. Everything is over. Detective Simmons is in the ground and HR is splintered beyond repair.

It’s all over, and yet- John cannot feel. He cannot think. He is catatonic, silent, slumped over. His eyes are glassy and his arms, those sinewy, deadly arms, hang limply at his sides.

He’s still wearing the suit from last night. He’s still wearing Carter’s blood, and he can count the spots where the tears interrupted the crimson flow.

He didn’t even stay for the funeral. He remembers Harold begging him to stay, grabbing at his shoulder, whispering his name in a strangled, pleading voice.

John shakes the thought from his mind and looks down at his hands.

He can still see Simmons gasping for breath, gurgling, choking on his own blood. He clenches his fists and imagines that thrilling, terrifying feeling of a heartbeat under his fingers, and then- nothing.

Simmons is gone forever, and so is Carter.

They’re never coming back.

John doesn’t know if he will blame himself tomorrow. He doesn’t want to think about it yet. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever want to think about it, or if he’ll even have a tomorrow.  
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

He almost laughs as the phrase crosses his mind. Macbeth, was it? Harold would be proud.

_Harold._

John doesn’t want to think about Harold, either. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever go back to the Library or work on a case again.

They’ve lost a team member, a friend. What if he loses Harold too?

John can’t bear the thought of any more pain, any more bloodshed.

He feels for the Sig Sauer in his waistband and wonders if he should do it. This isn’t the first time that he’s entertained the idea.

He’s failed them all, hasn’t he?

John pulls out the magazine and runs his blood-crusted fingers over the fifteen gleaming bullets.

Fifteen ways to die. Fifteen ways out.

He reloads the magazine and chambers a bullet. A car alarm is beeping in the distance, and he wonders if the last thing he’ll ever hear.

John releases a puff of air and breathes in a moment later. He’s alive, but something isn’t working.

Something inside of him is broken. He closes his eyes and lifts the muzzle to his temple.

He holds his breath, and then he stops. 

His mind is flooded with images of the Numbers, the innocents. He thinks about the evil in the world that he has already stopped.

Damn it.

He thinks about Fusco and Bear and Shaw. Begrudgingly, he even thinks about Leon and his annoying penchant for getting kidnapped. 

John wonders if the Machine is beaming these messages into his brain. He doesn’t doubt Harold’s abilities, and he thinks that the other man might be a little bit psychic.

Harold. There it is again.

John’s thoughts are dominated by Harold once more, and he sees the other man working cases without him, lonely and vulnerable and utterly devastated.

He sees Harold drinking tea alone as he brushes his fingertips over photographs of Grace and Nathan and John, all of the people that he had to leave behind.

John’s eyes fly open, and he stares at the gun his palm. He swallows hard, and his mouth is as dry as a bone.

He stands to his full height, shaky as a newborn deer, and makes his way to the refrigerator.

John pulls out a water bottle and presses his parched lips to the brim. 

The sensation is cold and shocking, the opposite of life, but he drinks greedily, willing himself to feel.

He doesn’t even notice the faint footfalls behind him, or the arms that suddenly envelop his waist in a desperate, life-giving embrace.

_“Oh, John.”_

John can hear Harold’s voice cracking, and he leans down into the other man’s touch. He’s dangerously light-headed, so he moves over to the couch.

Harold is right behind him, and they collapse under the staggering weight of their grief. John Reese rarely cries, but his body is shaking with sobs. He doesn’t make a sound.

Harold is crying, too, but his tears come slower, falling down his cheeks like wayward raindrops. He pulls off his glasses and places them on the table, and he turns back to John.

“What were you going to do, John?” he rasps, absentmindedly brushing his fingertips across the dark head on his shoulder.

“Not- not sure, Harold,” John manages. He chokes back a sob and reaches a tentative arm around the older man’s shoulders.

“You’re not leaving us, John. You’re not leaving _me_ ,” Harold whispers. His voice is earnest and desperate, but there’s a distinct firmness to it. It’s a command.

“I can’t do this anymore,” John says mournfully. “I can’t. What if we lose someone else? What if you-,” he falters.

“I won’t leave you, John. I never will,” Harold soothes.

John knows that Harold can’t make any promises, but he lets himself believe the other man and leans into his touch.

“We’re going to make it back, John. Together,” Harold whispers, and his lips hover above John’s ear.

John looks up at Harold and their eyes meet.

The old sparkle is gone, but there is a determination there, and a simmering, fervent _something_ that Harold can’t place.

_Love_.

John is determined, but he’s not thinking about the numbers now.

He will hold onto Harold, come hell or high water.

Harold’s stare is equally intense, and John can see something terrifying under the tenderness. 

John realizes in that instant that Harold will never let him go, and he can feel the intensity of the other man’s protectiveness.

Harold isn’t speaking, but he’s saying something. He’s screaming it out.

“I’ll keep you safe, John. I will keep you alive. They’ll have to get through me this time.”

John is oddly at ease. He relaxes into Harold’s arms, drifting off to sleep as he dreams of warmth and stability and peace.

Harold holds John for a long time, guarding him against the world and whatever else is down the road. He makes a promise to himself and to John, and he speaks it aloud to the room.

“I’ll keep you safe, John. We’re not going to lose anyone else.” 

Harold presses a kiss to John’s temple and brushes the dark hair away from his forehead.

Tonight, they are safe.

End.


End file.
